


How We Die

by bravelikealady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, House Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravelikealady/pseuds/bravelikealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This began in a comment fic thing on livejournal a few years ago...  </p>
<p>AU: Sansa is thrown into the black cells after trying to flee the night of the battle on the Blackwater. Two nights later, the Hound is apprehended north of King’s Landing, is brought back and thrown into the same cell with Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This is more graphic depictions of wounds/bruises/etc than of actual violence, but I gave the warning all the same.

Sansa could feel the beat of her heart in her turgid, bloody lip. This was the tenth time she had opened her eyes to darkness, but this time was different. Her eyes parted willingly now, no longer struggling against the swelling of lids and the aching of bones. Had days passed? Weeks? Or merely hours? All she could do anymore was sleep, sleep and cry, yet there were no tears to be found. These sobs only belonged to her insides, their wiling energy refusing to give her any relief. Sansa wondered if she looked as frightful as she had when she caught her reflection on the way to the black cells, though she could barely see it then. Perhaps she had only imagined herself looking so monstrous and wild, perhaps she had only wished to be such a thing. _I am no she-wolf, I am just a little talking bird._ She had fought like a wolf at least. Her brothers would have been proud. The Kingsguard did not expect Sansa to be armed when they found her and some of them would bear the scars of her knife for the rest of their lives. The knife had been left on her bed by the Hound the night of the battle on the Blackwater. She hadn’t truly understood his offer to take her with him until hours after he left. He made her sad and he made her frightened, but mostly he made her brave, and Sansa vowed to catch up to him and to offer him some sort of consolation should he take her to her brother, the King in the North, the only king Sansa could imagine trusting. Her resolve and courage in that moment did not make up for her lack of experience in navigation and stealth, however, and she was soon found. Sansa let a small smile cross her lips as she remembered slashing into Meryn Trant’s face. How fitting it was for him to be scarred by the Hound’s blade. _There are no true knights_ , Sansa whispered sadly to no one in particular. She closed her eyes again, drifting from the black cell to her green-lit chambers, her hand on a scarred face, a cruel mouth inching ever closer to her eager one…

She was pulled from her dream suddenly by the sound of shuffling and grunting. From the noises, she deduced a scuffle. Someone was being brought in, by many guards, someone important. _It is not for me, they have not come for me._ Sansa might have breathed a sigh of relief, but she was not sure that she was glad. If someone came for her, it would surely be to take her to her death, but could death be any worse than the cold and stench of these cells? And if Joffrey let her live, let her go on to be his Queen and bear his children, how would she ever know that she was not dead after all, that she was not in some hell of eternal pretend? _Has someone captured Robb? Or maybe they found Arya?_ Immediately after she had the thought, she hated herself. If they were to be found, she would get to have her family around her, but that was nothing to hope for. It would mean they would die with her; It would mean the Lannisters had won. Sansa suddenly became sad about the prospect of another prisoner. She would be content to die alone, curled on the cold, dirty floor of the cell. This new person might ruin solitude, might threaten the dreams she carefully constructed to pass the time. Alone, she could imagine her slow death as a peaceful rest on freshly fallen leaves in the Godswood of her home. Alone, she could remember Winterfell: Herself tucked into some corner, practicing stitches or reading, Arya and Bran and Rickon running through the halls, Robb and Jon and Theon dueling in the yard, her mother and father looking down on them all smiling. Alone, she could hum softly to herself, and pretend that the night of the Blackwater was here again, that she was safely singing in her bed, the Hound’s strong arms wrapped around her to protect her, not holding a knife to her throat, not shaking with fear himself.

“Let’s see you get away from all ten of us then, Dog.”

“Bugger you.”

Sansa felt her heart jump to her throat and her knees go weak at the sound of that rasp. _He has come back._ She smiled and cried at once, thankful that he was alive, thankful he no longer seemed afraid, but so sad that he did not get away. _But is it really him? Do not get lost in your head again, you stupid girl!_ She choked back the tears and forced the smile from her face. She stood, slowly, her muscles screaming at her, and made herself cross to the bars. She held onto them for dear life.

“Guess you’re not the little prince’s favorite anymore, now he knows you’re such a craven, huh?” The speaker let out a low cackle. “Never understood why he’d go for the lesser Clegane anyway. You’re just a pup next to him.”

“You going to lock me up, fool?”

“No, Sandor. Thought I’d let ya go, out of the goodness of me heart.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’d be pissed. Might be I fuck your mother raw, but only after I take your head.” Sansa heard the sound of fists meeting flesh and of a great man falling to the ground with a thud. And then she heard that laugh, that bold, bitter laugh that she did not even know was a comfort to her.

 


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sansa is to die, she knows now that it will not be in solitude. After chasing the fantasy of Hound as savior, she is faced with the reality of the man who left her with a bloody cloak...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the king's men do make insults/statements of a sexual nature.

Part II

The flame burned ever brighter as it rounded the corner into the opening of the cells. When she saw him, six men had their hands on him, two went in front with torches, and two stayed behind, their swords drawn, though he was no longer fighting them. Her heart skipped a beat and she rapidly sucked in air, once, then twice, forgetting to exhale, then letting out a long sigh. She still could not see him clearly, he lingered in a shadow, but no man was so tall yet so broad and she recognized his stature, disciplined but lukewarm.

“Look at that. The girl’s crying. Forget how ugly he was, princess?” The gaoler’s hiss made Sansa angry.

“That’s not why-” She stopped speaking, realizing that it didn’t matter, that this gaoler deserved no explanation, and wouldn’t understand if he were given one. She used her left thumb to delicately wipe away the tears she did not realize she spilled, wincing at her own touch around her eyes, still tender from the punches Joffrey had delivered her before ordering her taken to these cells. She looked up again, determined to be as cool and intangible as the north, and found her eyes catching Sandor’s, the fire from the torch making eerie, flickering pools in the scars that covered his face. He gave her a nod so slight that the gaolers did not notice it, but its effect was palpable. Sansa stood up straight, tightened her jaw, and looked cooly at the gaoler.

“Let’s put ‘em together,” said a member of the Kingsguard.

“I don’t know, ser. You think our boy King would approve?” The gaoler asked.

“I do. The little cunt deserves anything this monster might do to her, all the trouble she caused.”

The Hound let out a grunt as the burnt side of his mouth twitched.

“Something to say, Clegane?”

“Put me where you’ll bloody put me. I’m getting restless,” he tilted his head to the right as he spoke, glaring at the knight who spoke. “You’re like to wrestle me again.”

The knight shuddered, then stretched his head up higher, trying to seem bold, though he was afraid of this large and scarred man. “Do what you will, gaoler, but we’ve places to be. Where should we put him?”

“I like with the girl. Throw the big, mad dog to the sad, she-wolf. Always wanted to run a kennel.”

The crowd pushed the Hound forward and he walked toward the cell. Sansa stood, confounded, her heart beating so hard she thought that even those in the throne room would hear it. She watched him getting closer to her. Did he remember that night at all? Did he remember her room? Leaving his cloak? How they had come so close to kissing? Did he remember her hand on his face? Did it make hurt in his tummy the way it did in her own? She was suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was. She swallowed hard, still leaning on the bars as the gaoler placed the key in the cell door and turned it. Realizing she should move, she took her hands off the bars, but did not move. Still, she looked hard at Sandor’s face. He looked at her and her lips parted, as if in question.

“Best move, girl. They’ll get me in one way or another.”

The blush began to creep up her face. She looked at the ground, feeling bashful, and slowly backed away until she pressed her back against the wall. They led Sandor in and removed his binds, quickly backing out of the cell and locking them up again. The knights made a few crude remarks and then left. The gaoler placed the torch in the wall as he made markings in his book. Sansa took this time to look at Sandor. In some ways, he looked better than he had when he left her, however long ago that had been. He was not so pale and his strong brow seemed more relaxed. He had discarded any remnants of the Kingsguard. He now sat in a green roughspun tunic and brown trousers, both stained, with wine or blood Sansa could not say. As he sat down, leaning against a wall adjacent to Sansa, the gaoler spoke,“Play nice, pups.” And with that, the gaoler, and their light, was gone.

She heard Sandor shift and let out a low groan. _He hates me for not going with him_ , Sansa decided. She wondered if his silence would be followed by his rage, as Joffrey’s so often were. She knew so little of the Hound, so she still feared him, though she knew she could trust him in at least some small way. Trying not to think of how much worse a beating could be from such a large man, Sansa began to pace up and down the cell.

“Sit down, Little Bird. It’s too dark for all that. You’ll hurt yourself. Do I need to clip your wings?” He let out a laugh less bitter than the one he gave to the guards. Sansa stopped moving, but she did not sit. She tried to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, but it was no use. After a time she accepted that that sense was lost to her and began to focus on what senses she did possess. She could hear her own breath and that of Sandor. The cell no longer smelled only of blood, cold, and rot; She could smell him… Sweat, wine, soot, and the smell that was simply him, the subtle tones of earth and life that had comforted her those final nights as she lay quietly crying, finally taking in the full hurt of her bruises, wrapping herself in his cloak and breathing him in, drifting away from reality and toward the dream of what could have been. Suddenly, a warmth and exhaustion took hold of her body, one that dank cells and anxiety had not let her feel in some time. Crossing towards what she thought was the general direction of the Hound, Sansa found the wall, pressed her back firmly against it, and slowly slid finding the floor. When her hand touched the ground, she found her fingers just brushing the tips of his. She quickly pulled her hand away, afraid she might make him angry, afraid her touch would remind him of the last time they touched, and what he must consider betrayal.

“Your hands are cold, girl.”

“Yes. Yours will be soon.”

“Give them here…”

“Give… Give what?”

“Your hands, girl. I won’t bite. I only growl.”

She extended her hands into the darkness and soon felt much larger hands take her own. He rubbed them between his own, delicately, though his hands were rough and calloused. Her hands were completely enclosed by his and soon they began to warm. She added this to the hundreds of other little kindnesses he had showed her and then held those against the knife he pressed to her throat and she was confused all over again. Tears threatened to swell over her lids, but Sansa was determined to hold them back. She did not feel she had anything left to lose and so she spoke, “Why are you kind to me?”

“I’m not kind.”

Now that her hands were warm, he began extending each of her fingers with his own and rubbing them also. “It won’t do you any good to lose a finger to the cold. They’ll come for you soon enough and so long as Joff still sees a flower worth plucking, you’ll be alive.”

Sansa did not know why, but she was whispering now, “What if I don’t want to be?”

He let go of her hands and she heard him shift in the darkness. “Bugger that. Leave that talk to me.”

“…I mean it.”

“You chirp too much, little bird. Sing or shut your pretty, little mouth.”

“Oh, do you have a knife hidden on you,” Sansa asked sharply in a low voice. She was taken aback by her own daring, but didn’t care. _Maybe he does. Maybe he’ll cut my throat. Better to die this way than for everyone to see, Ilyn Payne, with my own father’s sword…_ Her thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Sandor.

“I was drunk… I was drunk and a fool.. I’d never…” He let out a loud growl then and Sansa heard him punch the floor. He yelled, “They could at least give me bloody wine if they’re going to lock me up in here. Bloody lions owe me that much.”

A quiet fell over them then, they sat without words. He drew breath, ragged and angry. The cold creeped into Sansa’s bones once more. Her breath felt like ice as it entered and exited her lungs. She felt the stained trail of her tears icing over beneath her eyes. _I am not alone_ , she thought. _At least I am not alone_. Before she really knew what was happening, her hand had stretched out and found the Hound’s, resting her hand on top of his and interlacing their fingers. She was certain his hand would just lie limp, ignoring her touch, but after a time his rough fingers curled around the tips of her own.

“Why are you in this cage, Little Bird? The other one was much nicer.”

“I… you’ll call me stupid.”

He let out a small laugh. “Might.”

She took a deep breath and spit out the words as fast as she could.

“I wanted to leave, I tried to leave… to find you… I thought if I found you… I wanted to go with you, I wanted you to keep me safe. I thought if we could leave, if we could find my brother, you could stay with us, you could go to Winterfell, you’d never have to be here again, not with fire or your brother or any Lannisters. I thought…”

Her words left her then. She felt the blush creep up her face and behind her ears. She sounded like such a frightened child. What would her mother have thought of her then? Sansa tried so hard to be brave and strong, but she was frightened. She began to pull her hand away, to curl into herself and sit with her shame, but he would not let her go.

“I wanted to keep you safe. I want to keep you safe.”

“You did… you do?”

She could feel him nod.

“You don’t get to die, Little Bird.

"What do you mean?”

“Hush now. Sleep.”

And then he let go of her hand, but only to wrap his strong arm around her and pull her into him. Sansa buried her face against him and let the stray tears fall. She let go of herself, of any courtesy or apprehension, and gave herself entirely to his warmth. She threw her legs over him and curled her hands up against his chest. She was worried he’d think her foolish and cast her away into the cold and stench of the cell, but he did not. He ran his other hand through her hair and soon she was asleep.


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a dark cell, far below, cold, what can you do for safety and warmth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some sexuality (no rape, dubcon, or actual sex) please be wary if Sansa's age will bother you

Sansa woke, again chilled to the bone, shivering, to the sound of Sandor retching. She could smell soured wine and sweat. When he was not retching, he was gulping the air, desperately. Sansa crawled towards him on her hands and knees, not wanting to risk having to position herself onto the ground from standing, especially now that there was a mess somewhere. With every move forward, Sansa outstretched her arms, and eventually, she brushed her hand across his shoulder, clumsily, with enough force for him to notice. He tried to speak through his gasps, "Get... eeeeegh.... away... eeegh..."

 

"No, I won't. What is happening? What is wrong?"

 

"I... I need... eeegh..." 

 

She felt him lurch forward and she could tell that he struggled with every heave. His body was trying to empty a stomach that held nothing, at least not since he had been placed in here and perhaps not before that. In his best moods, Sansa knew the Hound was prone to forego eat for drink. Sansa placed one hand firmly on his waist and rubbed his back gently with the other. She was afraid, confused, and did not know what to do; She had no answers. Regardless, he had made her brave before and perhaps she could do the same for him now. After a time, he seemed done and lay face down on the cold ground. Sansa rolled him onto his side and found his face in the darkness. Delicate hands found his scarred face, coarse and twisted, his hair matted to his flesh.

 

She began to whisper to him as he struggled to breathe. 

 

"Shh... Shh... You'll be alright... rest now. You'll be alright." Sansa curled her legs under her and pulled his head into her lap. He was still trying to push her away, but he was too weak and out of sorts to effectively deny her kindness. "Did someone... did someone poison you?"

 

"Eeegh... No, no, little... eeegh... I need wine... It's just that I need wine..."

 

"I cannot... I do not think I can get you wine..."

"Then just let me be," he barked at her, his steely rasp tempered with a desperate wailing she'd never heard from animal nor man before. "It's no use... leave me..."

 

"I won't. Let me think. I can help-"

 

"Sansa," he cried out pitifully, his voice barely a whisper. She leaned in closer, afraid she'd lose his voice, lose him in this darkness.

 

The back of her hand lie on his forehead and she found no joy in the warmth it gave her. "Do not speak. Just listen. Can you nod for me? Nod if you're listening?"

 

She felt his head move slowly against her hands.

 

"Good. I think you have a fever... "  _ Maester Luwin used to bundle us up when we got fevers in Winterfell... I can take care of him, just as I would Bran or Rickon or Arya when mother was away and there was no more Maester could do _ . "We need to make you sweat. Will you do what I say?"

 

"Leave me..."

 

"Will you do what I say... for me?"

 

He gave a groan that Sansa recognised as submission. She tore at the sleeve of her dress until she had removed it and then she folded it into a thick square. She began to wipe and dab at Sandor's forehead, removing the droplets of sweat and hoping that her gentle strokes might ease his pain. "Your sweat will cool on the rag in time and that might bring you comfort."

 

"I cannot lie any longer."

 

"I... I do not think you should sit up."

 

"I'm not asking, girl."

He tried to roll off of her and sit up, unsuccessfully. She realized that he would kill himself trying, clinging to what small pride had down here, what small pride he ever had at all, before he would lie down again. Resigning herself to who she was dealing with, Sansa put as much strength as she could into lifting up his shoulders and helped guide his back against a wall.

 

"Now. Settle." She was surprised at the authority in her voice, but could not take time to think on it. "Let's warm you."

 

Sandor released a weak guffaw. She found his arms and ran her hands up the strong limbs, finding his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him and slung her knee over so that she was straddling his outstretched legs. Her heart began to race; She did not understand why. Head light and stomach aflutter, Sansa pressed herself against him,  _ to warm him _ , she told herself, but truthfully, she did not know if she had the strength to remain upright. There was a dizzy weakness coursing through her and it made her feel bold and bright. She knew there was only blackness abound, but her eyes played tricks on her and the cell to seemed to hold a faint, green glow, just like the night he came to her.  _ I could keep you safe _ , he'd said. Perhaps she was meant to keep the Hound safe. 

 

His gravelly speech brought her back to dark reality, "Not that I've any complaints, Bird, but what in seven hells are you doing?"

 

Sansa tensed in embarrassment, but then felt the tiny shivers throughout his body and recalled how weak he was now. She missed his strength and she knew she should feel less safe with Sandor, who might be her only protection should Joffrey send someone to play tricks, in this state, but just for now, she was enjoying it. She relaxed, knowing he was too tired to push her away or to combat her kindness. " I am warming you. It will break your fever."

 

"I feel plenty warm."

 

"No, you don't. The fever plays tricks. You feel like ice."

"Then fuck off, girl. You'll freeze from the feel of me. Keep your warmth to yourself. Don't be stupid."

 

"I won't leave you to this."

 

"To what?"

 

"What ever this sickness is... I will fight it..."

 

"Wine sickness, girl," he barked a laugh. "Been so long in the cups that my body won't bloody go without it."

 

"Plenty of men drink."

 

"Aye, girl. Some men drown."

 

Silence fell over them. She listened to his heartbeat and felt his body tremble. Anxious with worry and desperate for more control over the situation, she took to running her hands over him, hoping to warm him. His tunic was drenched in his sweat and cooling rapidly.  _ It might provide relief now, but it could make him sicker _ . 

 

"You need... You need to take off your tunic. It is soaked through. It will cool you too much."

 

"You want me naked, you only have to ask," he laughed.

 

His breath quickened from the beginnings of that small action, so Sansa helped him remove his tunic. As she slid the cloth up and over his head, her left hand brushed the scar tissue along his neck. It frightened her, the rutted flesh beneath her fingertips. He did not wince, but she worried it had hurt him. She decided it best not to say anything. She folded the tunic into a sort of cushion and placed it behind his neck, moving his matted, sweat-soaked hair out of the way.

 

"You're as like to leave me be now as you were to leave with me three nights ago."

 

Tension took hold of her body as a pink tinge of shame and guilt rose hot in her cheeks. She tried to breathe it out and resumed rubbing warmth into his arms.  _ Three nights? Has it only been three nights?  _ A lifetime had passed since she had been cast down here, she was sure of it. Sansa was rounding his shoulders when his hands snatched up her wrists, shocking her with his speed and the crushing force of his fingers wrapped around her. A gasp left her lips, an animal sound; She jumped a bit and when she landed, her torso was pressed even tighter against him, the exposed parts of her breasts tickled by the hair of his chest, her nipples hardened by the frigidity of his skin breathing through her gown. She let out a small sigh, she could not say why, and she realized that her thighs were clenched tight against him. Sansa struggled, but that made her heart race even faster, and a longing was born in her. There was a pull in her chest and it pulled down, deep down, until she throbbed and ached. A tickle ran through her tummy and the pump of her blood swirled from her womanhood and down her legs. She was frightened, petrified, but she stopped moving. Great, heaving breaths swept up both of them and she could feel the cool fog that their lungs made in the cell. His breath hit her neck and ran down her spine, softly shaking stray hair. The grip on her wrists did not lighten and she was not sure she wanted it to, but he did lower her arms some and his thumbs caressed her now, but so slightly that she was not sure if it was truly happening or if it was a trick of her mind in this black world.

 

"What cage keeps you now, Little bird? Do you feel guilty? Do you save me so you can rest your pretty, little head?"

 

She did not know why she whispered... "No."

 

"You knew I was as good as dead when I was lying there... And you would not even go with me. There was no bloody white horse and no shine to my bloody armor. My protection would never be beautiful enough for you, you fickle child, you empty-headed girl, you-"

 

"NO."

 

Sansa shoved against the hands that held her and the surprise of it, added to his weakness, allowed her to pin his arms against the wall behind them. She knew he could turn on her at any point, could easily be out of her hold, and snap her wrists like twigs, even as the shaking, sweating thing he was now.  _ He is not fighting. One move and I would break, yet he does not move.  _

 

"No? What was it then? You stay for your love of the little lion?"

 

She was gritting her teeth, anger and frustration pumping more blood through her over excited frame. "I do not care about beauty. Not anymore. King's Landing is beautiful. The Keep is beautiful. Baelor is beautiful. Joffrey is beautiful. Cersei is beautiful..."

 

"Still doesn't answer me, girl. What knife is held to your throat now? Why do you try to nurse me? What damned honor makes you pretend to give a shit?"

 

"You don't get to die, either." 

 

The words left her, cold, stinging, they had crawled from her throat like desperate, dying dogs.

 

"Better I be in all seven hells at once than with a highborn bitch who thinks me anything more than a monster. No stories of me in all the tales you picked up over time? I am sworn to Lannisters, girl. Sworn to the boy king who would fuck your corpse to spite your brother-"

 

"BUT YOU LEFT! ...you left. You are in these cells, left to rot, the same as me!"

 

"That makes me a fucking hero, girl? No, it makes me a fool. A bloody hero isn't haunted by every man he ever killed. A bloody hero does not beg Gods he does not believe in to bring him wine."

 

His hands let go of her wrists and his arms slid down from her, leaving her clutching cold stone. A large hand found her waist and gripped it tight, but light. She felt like some lyre, strings wound so tight to their pegs that she threatened eternally to break, but along came his gentle touch and she thrummed, she shook, she sang, as if she were not made of dead wood. As if of their own accord, her hands found his chest and traced the battle scars there with the tips of her fingers, tenderly grasping the muscled make of this man she could not bring herself to forget. His other hand moved to the small of her back and pulled her in closer. Her hand slid upward, finding the tortured flesh of his neck and followed the scar tissue like a welcome path in labyrinthian woods. Under the twist and pull of ruined skin, she took comfort in the strength of his jaw. Touch painted a picture of the face she longed to look on now. She raised herself up and back down again, slowly, her warm center leading her to a home. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rocked more into him. She felt his fingers twitch against her back and she dug her nails into the nape of his neck. Through his cloth breeches, a tumescent stiffness rose to her and she felt her center grow hotter, her blood pump faster, the ache in her drop lower, yet spread all over. It was then, sliding a hand across his collarbone, that she realized how dripping with sweat he was and how his tenacious, gelid flesh was now a clammy yet reasonable cool. "Your fever has broken," she whispered, her lips against his ear.

 

"Seems you saved me, Little bird."

 

"...Hold me."

 

"Fly away, Little Bird."

 

"I'll sing for you."

 

"You shouldn't..."

 

She found herself leaning into him, her supple lips grazing his cruel, thin ones as she spoke.

 

"I know a song about Florian and Jonquil."

  
Before she could sing a single note, the flicker of flame entered the sphere of darkness once more. Sansa did not wonder who was coming or why, or whether she would live or die; She wondered how long the anger would stay out of these grey eyes, how long each had been holding the other's gaze despite the blind cage that contained them.


	4. FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially uploaded a draft version of this by mistake. Apologies if you read that, but it should be fixed now. :)

 

 

“I do not know what can be done with you now, Sansa.”

 

The sun coming into the open antechamber blinded Sansa and sharpened the ache that had been in her head even in the blackness of the cells. Even swollen-eyed and in crippling pain Sansa could see how beautiful Cersei looked this morning.  _ Is it morning? It must be. She is not fully dressed.  _ Her hair fell in a loose braid over her right shoulder, bright and golden, competition for the severity and beauty of the sunlight. 

 

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”

 

Sansa was no longer fooled by the softness in the queen regent’s voice: she could hear the sharp edges, the struggling drops.  _ She is as sincere as I am _ , Sansa thought, almost laughing.

 

“Eat something,” Cersei scolded Sansa, sliding her half eaten breakfast across to her. The smell made her mouth water as much as it made her want to throw up or pass out. She stared down at the plate, shielding her eyes against the sun. Delicately, she picked up a piece of sausage and tried to nibble on it. Her stomach wanted badly, but protested. It took several deep breaths to get down even the tiniest of pieces. 

 

Cersei got up from the little round table and crossed to an archway that opened onto a staircase, leading to a fragrant garden below, Cersei’s and Cersei’s alone. Sansa had never been there though she could see some of its manicured hedges and flowering bushes from other openings along the expansive hallways of the Red Keep. Her figure blocked some of the sunlight and Sansa was glad of it. When guards came for her in the hour before, Sansa was sure she was to be killed.  _ Is this better or worse, _ she thought. As those two men, both knights who had distributed Joffrey’s punishments onto her legs and arms before, lifted her violently by taking her under the arm Sansa had tried to tell them how badly the Hound needed help. One ignored her and the other laughed. Desperately she tried now to think of an appeal that might work on Cersei, but that only tied her stomach into a bigger knot. 

 

“I want you to know, Sansa, that I did not approve of Joffrey throwing you into those cells, or of hits to the face. I will have someone see to those bruises. We can’t have you looking that way.”

 

“As you did not approve of him taking my father’s head?”

 

“Watch your tone, little fool. Do not be so stupid as to quarrel with me. I am your only friend here. Do you think you left those cells because my son had a change of heart?”

 

Sansa knew that, in a way, what Cersei said was true. Cersei was a monster, just as Joffrey, but she could be navigated much easier than him and cared more about appearances and decorum. It had never helped her much...  _ but it might be all that stands between life and death for me now _ . 

 

“Thank you, Cersei,” she heard herself whisper.  _ A pretty little talking bird. _ She wanted to be spiteful, defiant, but where had it gotten her? She was scared, sick, and falling to pieces.  _ What is braver? Living or dying? I do not know. Robb would know…  _

 

“You are no longer betrothed to Joffrey.”

 

Sansa felt a fluttering down in her tummy and up through her chest.  _ You are still not safe _ , she told herself.  _ You are still trapped here. _ “Is that my punishment?”

 

“Does it break your heart?”

 

Cersei laughed as she poured two cups of wine, sliding one to Sansa and keeping the much fuller one for herself. She sipped as she looked Sansa up and down. Embarrassment washed over her. She knew she must look a fright and even after all that had happened she found herself wanting to look Cersei’s equal at the least.

 

“It is a blessing, Sansa. Your house no longer has a reputation. Your brother’s little rebellion and your mother’s foolishness… you are no longer a fit match. Perhaps we’ll find someone for you. Some little seat dished out after the battle will have you, I am sure of it. Beauty may be the only currency left to you. Were I you I would aim to not get my face pummeled again.”

 

“Who will be Joffrey’s queen now?”

 

Sansa did not care in any real way.  _ I am not his. To beat or bruise or bed. I am not his _ . In some small way, Joffrey could not reach her. It thrilled her. 

 

“Margaery Tyrell. That  _ delightful _ girl. The Tyrells have allied themselves with us and  _ more _ than proved themselves in the battle,” Cersei said. As she did with matters concerning Sansa, Cersei used all of the right words, but something in them was hollow and hateful.

 

“Will the Hound be left in the cells?”

 

This made Cersei stop where she stood. She sat down her goblet and took her seat across from Sansa once more. “Little wolf, what care you for a stupid dog?”

 

Sansa felt fear and anger climbing her body, but steeled herself, meeting Cersei’s gaze. 

 

“He is a traitor, Sansa. Though you two do have that in common. Is that where your concern comes from?”

 

“I only know he was so important to Joffrey… and has protected him since he was a babe.”

 

Cersei scoffed.

“Mayhaps he never meant to betray Joffrey.”

 

“Are you truly so naive, Sansa? You think prayers can save you from a war and that men run from battle to  _ serve _ their King?”

 

“But we were saved.”

 

Sansa did feel foolish then.  _ I should have prayed for death. I should have prayed for Stannis to find me, no matter what his men might do to me first. I am a Stark of Winterfell. To one of them it might have meant something _ . She remembered green flickering over her chamber and his hand on her wrists.  _ I should have gone with him… I could have helped… He was too drunk, that is why he was found, I could have helped _ .

 

“Do you feign stupidity to infuriate me, Sansa? You are a woman now, a rose bloomed, a spring bled. Best act like it.” 

 

“Of course, your Grace. I will _ try  _ to be less stupid.”

 

Cersei caught the venom in Sansa’s voice. “Thank the gods for that. Let’s hope you succeed. I will have someone see you to your chambers. We will see what Joffrey wants to do with you- and I suppose his Dog as well.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

At the instruction of Grand Maester Pycelle, a handmaiden Sansa had never seen before was applying cold rags and various ointments to her face and lips, making her take a sip of some concoction at even intervals. 

 

“Mostly water,” he’d told her. Whether it was the water aspect of it or whatever Pycelle had dissolved in it she could not say, but Sansa did feel in less pain and even felt a bit peckish. 

 

_ I wonder if all my handmaidens have been replaced _ . This happened more frequently than she would like, without escape attempts. She wondered now if she would be allowed to have even the basest familiarity any longer. She wondered if she would have handmaidens at all after this.  _ They will cut me off from the household entirely. Mayhaps they’ll marry me off to some man, hardly a lord made new, with no ladies or septas or maesters at all. _ She thought that might not be so bad.  _ Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin, and Jory did their duty and then some. Even loved us. _ Her lady mother Catelyn always did more than was required of her, preferring to be hands on than to leave things in hired hands, which her father was more than happy to supply. Sansa supposed she did know enough to run her own household, especially a small household. 

 

_ I will find someone like Jory _ , she told herself, eyes closed to brace herself for the sting of the ointments. The dream of her possible simple world was dashed by a knocking at the door. 

“Excuse me,” the dark haired girl said, nearly a whisper. She sat down the little pot of greenish clay and opened the door. Sansa could not see who it was from where she sat and she felt her heartbeat in her throat as all the frightful possibilities ran through her mind. 

 

_ I hope it is anyone but Joffrey… if it is one of his knights, let it not be Ser Meryn.  _

 

“Lady Sansa, you are to go with them.” 

 

She stood, taking a moment to find her footing, her head still light, her muscles still unsure. At the door stood Cersei, behind her Ser Meryn (bearing the scar she gave him with the Hound’s dagger) and Ser Boros ( _ the very worst _ , she thought, stifling a gasp), and behind them, shackled, in the middle of four men, Sandor Clegane. 

 

“You look as if you have seen a ghost. Come with me, Sansa. If you will be agreeable and walk by my side Ser Meryn and Ser Boros need not lay a hand on you.”

 

“I will be agreeable,” she said, avoiding the eyes of the Hound. 

 

_ He will think me stupid again _ .  _ They will kill us side by side and he will think me stupid. _


End file.
